Shame
by TuesdayNovember
Summary: When Regulus Black becomes infatuated with Rabastan Lestrange, the cold man who feels nothing but revulsion for him, he makes a series of bad decisions that bring him only shame. Oneshot, mature content.


**Written for the lovely Gamma Orionis, who long ago requested I write this pairing, and to whom I long ago promised this. As a special birthday surprise (happy birthday!) I finally present it to her.**

**WARNING: male masturbation**

* * *

**Shame**

* * *

The ostentatiously baroque clock ticked impatiently on the wall in front of Regulus. Sprites and Cherubs painted on the clock face whirled and grinned impertinently outwards. He stifled a sigh.

The Lestranges' parlour, furnished with a large mahogany table for the occasion, was as ostentatiously ornate as the clock. Every table dripped with doilies, and everything was carved into patterns of flowers and dipped or painted in gold.

Narcissa raised a thin hand and brushed the half-moon curve of her hair from her cheeks. She looked ethereally beautiful, as she always did, like an angelic spirit, but Regulus knew that today she had not put much attention to herself. Certainly she thought herself above all this fuss – the Lestranges were important, but she would be marrying a _Malfoy._ Her hair was only partly pinned up, allowing that vanilla swoop to frame half her face, and the powder she used to dust herself with had not been blended exactly properly into her cream skin. It covered her with a thin layer of soft scent, slightly visible, giving her the look of someone slowly turning to dust and disintegrating before them all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and soon she would be no more.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, had refused all ornamentation. Her hair, in twisted curls, slithered down her back and around her chest like black and twirling snakes, and her face was pallid, eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep and lack of care. Only Druella looked as though she had taken this meeting seriously, as her hair was perfectly coiffed, her robes immaculate, and her face a picture of idyllic serenity. Only her eyes betrayed any distaste, and that, at least, was directed at her daughters, who ought, she knew, to have been taking this more seriously than they were.

But for all Mrs Lestrange had disgusting taste, she was tactful and polite, ignoring the slight the daughters presented to her; or, perhaps, she was simply too caught up in her own makeshift grandiosity to notice.

Regulus flicked his eyes away from his cousins and let them linger a moment on Rabastan. The younger Lestrange brother looked little like the elder – he was smaller, gaunt, and with an almost sickly pallor. Where Rodolphus's body was virile and masculine, Rabastan's was fragile, with thin, bony hands and too prominent cheekbones, jutting out like knives under his effeminately large eyes. The irony was that for all Rodolphus looked like a warrior, he had the mind of an academic, preferring to study the genealogy of their purity rather than defend it, while Rabastan relished any opportunity to exact violence on his enemies.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Rabastan grinned at him, a languid, exasperated grin – no one but Mrs Lestrange wanted to be there, cloistered in the parlour discussing wedding plans, on that almost offensively bright afternoon.

Narcissa flicked her hair out of her face with long fingers; the swoop dragged across her dusted cheek, and Regulus thought he could see her powdering away before his eyes.

"Purple is such a _royal_ colour," Mrs Lestrange said, her voice thick and full of manufactured emotion, "and Bella, darling, you do look_ ever_ so regal in it."

Puppeteer strings pulled the edges of Bellatrix's mouth up in a facsimile of a smile. "I think I look just as regal in black, Mrs Lestrange, if that's the theme we're following."

Druella's eyes swivelled towards her daughter, piercing her with warning daggers. Regulus looked at the table and held back a smirk; for all Bellatrix was half mad, she could be surprisingly, scathingly lucid at times.

He dragged his eyes back up after a time, and attempted to tune out the women's words, letting vague, half-formed fantasies arrest his attention.

There was something compelling about Rabastan; the smallness of him, the way his body seemed to be made as a too-tight casing for his bones. He wasn't handsome, but the sharpness of his edges seemed to belie some eventual metamorphic change, like a dragon on the verge of shedding his skin. Regulus didn't realize he was staring until Rabastan quirked his eyebrows upwards; his mouth was smiling but his eyes were clouded with something else.

Regulus felt something tighten within himself at that look clouded with … disgust? Revulsion? Rabastan was no witch for ogling, and Regulus felt shame blossom within him, the ugliest of flowers. He looked away immediately.

•••

"My lovely Bellatrix," Mrs Lestrange crooned, pressing kisses to her cheeks, "it was so lovely to see you again. I'm so glad your family was able to come as well. Soon," she smiled her honeyed, cloying smile, "we shall all be one family, and it's lovely to know one's relatives so intimately."

Regulus gazed blandly at her, wondering if she knew any other adjectives besides 'lovely'.

"Nice to see you too," Bellatrix said flatly before stepping into the Floo and returning home. Narcissa followed suit, after sharing a few unenthusiastic words about how it really was so_ lovely_ of Mrs Lestrange to have invited her. Druella was careful to be more sincere in her speech, though Regulus wasn't entirely certain she meant what she said either.

"Goodbye, Seraphina. Thank you so much for having invited us to your home. Regulus, darling," here she turned to her nephew, "do come to the Manor before going home. Cygnus mentioned some business he'd like to discuss with you. Seraphina, thank you again," Druella said, kissing her cheeks before whirling away in the fire.

Regulus smiled awkwardly, giving his half-polite goodbyes to the family, and steadfastly avoiding Rabastan's gaze – it was too piercing, too knowing.

•••

Black Manor was as forbidding as ever, but Regulus liked it that way. Something about the austerity of those cold stone walls gave him some sense of relief. Here, nothing mattered, so long as you were worthy of walking those halls.

Cygnus welcomed him into the study and launched into a speech that it seemed he had memorized for the occasion.

_Regulus-you-must-make-sure-Bellatrix-is-safe-she-cannot-be-harmed-or-captured-before-her-wedding-perhaps-talk-to-the-Dark-Lord-ask-him-if-she-can-be-taken-off-active-duty_

He nodded and stifled a series of sighs. Following the loss of Andromeda, and later Sirius, Cygnus had been more and more paranoid about the status his family held. That he couldn't force Bellatrix into a less dangerous path made him nervous, and now, knowing that if anything went wrong she could put her marriage at risk, he was more fretful than ever.

The Lestranges had agreed to the marriage even after Andromeda had made such a shameful spectacle of herself, and that was not to be taken lightly.

Regulus knew there wasn't much he could do – if the Dark Lord wanted Bellatrix to do something, no pleas on his behalf would change his mind. But he agreed to petition the cause nonetheless, if only to get Cygnus to stop wringing his hands and spouting half-formed fears into the icy dark of the room.

But his talking didn't stop; Cygnus continued to prattle on about how dangerous everything was, and how good the Lestranges were to accept such a wild daughter-in-law, and how Rodolphus would hopefully be taking care of Bellatrix during their work as well. Regulus wondered how much Cygnus really knew about his daughter, if he thought she needed to be taken care of, but let the issue slide. His mind was wandering, and his attention arrested by a vague and indistinct curiosity as to the whereabouts and actions of Rabastan. He might be riding, now, in the bright of the afternoon, the sun glancing off the hair which – Regulus knew – shone violently red in the unsympathetic light. He would be switching the horse's flanks, urging him farther, faster, one hand tight on the reins, the other working the crop, his legs tight around the horse's sides, muscles shifting to keep him balanced. His hair would be a bloody halo in the sun, his face twisted in almost angry contemplation, lips curled back over his teeth – could the horse not go any faster? His fingers would run along the shaft of the crop; rough, thoughtless fingers that could do so much –

"You understand, don't you, Regulus?" Cygnus asked, finally letting his long trail of words slither to its end as the echoes of his last thoughts vanished from the room.

Regulus nodded. "I understand, Uncle," he said, fixing his eyes on a point just slightly to the left of Cygnus's head, unwilling to look into his eyes when they were so full of that reprehensible uncertainty. He had always hated that look on his elders; though an adult now himself, only barely, he still felt a certain reverential deferral towards the family that had raised him, and to be privy to his uncle's misgivings, his fears, only made him feel a kind of sickness, certainly not the honour he was sure his uncle meant.

Cygnus stood, shook Regulus's hand firmly, and ushered his nephew from the room, asking if he would care to stay for dinner, perhaps, or to have a drink with him in the parlour if he couldn't stay.

But Regulus shook his head and told his uncle 'no' to both options. He had had enough company for the day – more than enough – and the thought of spending more time with his uncle, even if he was sure the man would be less frightened, less emotional, did not sit well with him.

And so with a polite goodbye and a half-hearted wish to see his uncle soon, he stepped out the door and down the wide marble steps onto the gravelly path, and Apparated home.

•••

Regulus watched the road from the window in his room. The weather had taken a turn for the bleak, and dark, heavy clouds obscured the sky. The world outside his room was grey – grey bodies, grey motorcars, grey spatters of rain on the dull grey window. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass, letting its chill seep slowly and achingly into his skull.

And as his mind began to wander, an image of Rabastan floated to the fore. Rabastan, Rabastan … with pointed fingers and sharp cheekbones and those dark, fearsome eyes and the prominent bones … Regulus wondered if those bones were prominent everywhere. If, perhaps, his hips were jagged points, if his knees were sharp … how lithe his body would be, how slight, how dangerously frail – and yet how dangerous he could be in spite of it. His chest would have just a few reddish hairs curling above, and a flat expanse of pale skin all the way down to just below his bellybutton, where would begin a fine trail of thin, soft hairs, all the way down to where he had shaved, maybe a few days ago, with a few short, prickly hairs scattered across his white and veined skin. And then, lower down …

Regulus opened his eyes.

His own cock was tingling, ever so slightly, and he could feel it; bound gently by his undergarments, straining for its release, for a firm hand to guide it.

But Regulus didn't move, not a muscle, though his cock was curving upwards of its own perverse volition.

It was _wrong._ He thought of that look in Rabastan's eyes when he had been caught staring almost made him wilt – almost. But the thought of that body, _his_ body, was so horrible, so wrong, so _tantalizingly_ wrong, that he could barely help himself.

_No one will ever know._

He moved away from the window, drawing the blinds, and sat at the edge of his bed, where he slowly, painstakingly, slipped his cock out from its restraints, and slid a hand down it.

His head rolled back, almost unconsciously, and he stifled a heavy sigh.

Rabastan, Rabastan – on his horse, his legs tensing and shifting from the effort of staying upright; in his shower, stark naked, his hair darkened by the water and plastered against his scalp, his neck, his hands foamed with soap and lathering that one most perfect of perfect parts; on the edge of his own bed, half clothed, head thrown back in ecstasy as Regulus himself slid his lips, his tongue, his warm and excessive spit, over that cock, so warm and smooth and _hard_ in his mouth; that same cock fucking him, Rabastan half atop him, letting out unstoppable groans as he thrust – harder! Fuck me harder, Rab! Oh -! A rough hand on his cock as he came…

His shut his eyes and jerked harder, harder and faster still, until at last an overflow of whiteness burst from his cock and spattered everything in the vicinity with its warm streaks. His hand slowed, became more gentle, and finally let go.

He sighed. He cast a quick cleaning spell. He collapsed backwards onto his bed.

And shame washed over him.

•••

Some months later came Bellatrix and Rodolphus's wedding – a lavish affair, grandiose, with too many people invited for Regulus (and indeed the newlywed couple and many others) to feel at all comfortable. But the day passed without incident, and night fell without disturbance, and the reception carried on, late into the night, at Lestrange Manor.

Sometime shortly after midnight, Regulus escaped from the festive din with a bottle of Firewhisky. He wandered the gardens, and saw too many half-drunk couples on the verge of fucking, before he returned inside to wander the halls. The effects of his drink were beginning to make him somewhat unsteady on his feet, so he dragged a hand along the walls as he walked, being careful not to trip on the rug, until he found himself inside what must have been the library.

He walked past shelves of leather-bound books, pulling some from their place before replacing them, quickly bored. There was an armchair by a fireplace at the far end of the room, and upon spotting it he made a beeline towards the plush upholstery, which he finally sank into, and closed his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep, because he was startled awake by a cold voice saying, "You're not supposed to be here."

He opened his eyes slowly, the effects of the alcohol only just beginning to wear off, and fixed his bleary eyes on Rabastan, frowning down at him.

"R-ra-" his mouth and throat were dry, so he took a swallow of Firewhisky and tried again. "Rabastan! So nice to see you this fine evening!" He stood, a bit unsteadily, and held the bottle out. "Have a drink with me, it's a celebration."

Regulus was smiling, grinning, happier than he had been all day, and he patted Rabastan on the shoulder.

The red haired man didn't immediately push his hand away, and Regulus took it as a good sign. He smiled some more.

"The party's in the ballroom, Regulus."

"We can have…" he lowered his voice and stepped a bit closer, "our own party here." Rabastan didn't move. "Wouldn't that be f-fun?"

"I don't think so."

"I know you want it. I know – I know you're like me, Rab. Don't tell me you've never thought of it …" His voice trailed off slowly.

There was a brief moment of silence, when the lights felt so much brighter, and Regulus snaked a hand around Rabastan's neck, and pulled him closer, and pressed his lips against the other man's, and was elated with what he had finally done.

But it was only the briefest of moments, and Rabastan shoved him roughly away – so roughly that he stumbled back, and fell, and Rabastan watched him with only disgust in his eyes.

"Hasn't your family had enough shame already?"

And he left, leaving Regulus on the cold floor of the library, alone.

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**Thoughts?**


End file.
